


When in Rome

by guineapiggie



Series: Birdsong [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate universe - Mafia, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 23:53:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7129601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guineapiggie/pseuds/guineapiggie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She came to a halt on the last step and for a moment, she was captivated by the beautiful decoration of the altar. It was, just as he’d said, an old bit of propaganda and flattery carved in marble, but this visit was not about truths. It was about beliefs and hopes and symbolism, and she felt that she had come to the right place.</p><p>She had lost eight people to a pointless war, and if she’d know what god to address her prayers to, she would have begged for peace every night. And who better to turn to than the actual incarnation of peace?</p><p>Very slowly, with almost reverent movements, she placed the eight flowers on the floor in front of the altar, one by one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When in Rome

 

**In the Roman Empire, there was a goddess by the name of Pax, the incarnation of peace. The Emperor Augustus used her to symbolise and promote his political concept of the pax romana and to secure his reputation as the one who restored peace and welfare in the Roman Empire. The Senate built an altar dedicated to the goddess and the Emperor’s peace, the Ara Pacis Augustae…**

_For some reason, she could not get those lines from her history book out of her head while she watched the coffin bearers marching past her with stoic faces. The only ones who’d even known the woman whose body they carried on their shoulders were Ed and Brynden._

_"Catelyn Stark was an exceptional woman, a loving wife, a caring mother, with a keen sense of duty, an honourable citizen…"_

_She stared at them, at the coffin, feeling nothing, and thought about laying down flowers at the altar of the goddess of peace._

 

* * *

 

 

“Pick somewhere.”

“I’m… not sure I know what you’re implying. Not sure I want to know.”

He rolled his eyes. “And you call _me_ dirty-minded, sweetling?” He threw a brochure on the coffee table and poured himself a glass of wine. “Pick a _city._ ”

Frowning, she picked up the shiny brochure. It was an advertisement for an airline, with a long list of destinations.

“Pick a city to do what?”

“For a visit, a holiday,” he gave back indifferently. “Call it whatever you want.”

“A holiday? _You?_ ”

“You need to get away from here for a while,” he gave back with a shrug. “And _I_ haven’t been to anywhere in ages, so yes. I’d like a holiday.”

“Then you should pick the destination.”

“I don’t care where we’re going. As long as it’s not _here._ ”

She frowned at him. “Right. Tell me what you’re planning.”

He smirked. “Pick a city.”

 

* * *

 

“Let me get this straight,” he said, eying her closely from behind his dark sunglasses. “You are in _Rome,_ for the very first time in your life, and you want to go see _this?_ ”

“Yes,” she replied absent-mindedly, avoiding his eyes.

“Instead of seeing some of the greatest architecture in all of Europe, you want to visit a flashy bit of propaganda carved in marble?”

Sansa didn’t reply – he wouldn’t understand. (She didn’t really want him to, either.)

There was a small flowerbed to her right, and on the spur of the moment, she bent down to pick eight red poppies. He watched her, silent now, his face impossible to read with the sunglasses hiding his grey eyes.

Once his relentless stare would have sent shivers down her spine, but now the sun was warming her and she felt almost safe, almost… comfortable.

She had expected him to wait outside, after all the mock he’d made of that monument she couldn’t imagine he would pay the entrance fee. But instead he paid for them both, slid his sunglasses in his pocket and walked in like he owned the place. Sansa fought the urge to roll her eyes.

There were two guards standing in the corners in the huge glass cube, both looking like they would fall asleep any moment, and a Chinese couple, fully equipped with a huge camera, backpack and city map each, chattering away to each other as they eyed the carvings. But apart from them, the museum was empty.

No one paid much notice to Sansa and her flowers when she got up the stairs to the altar – no one but Petyr who’d stopped on the first step and stood so still he might as well have been a statue himself. She could feel his eyes on her, but did her best to ignore it. This moment didn’t belong to him, and she would not let him invade it.

She came to a halt on the last step and for a moment, she was captivated by the beautiful decoration of the altar. It was, just as he’d said, an old bit of propaganda and flattery carved in marble, but this visit was not about truths. It was about beliefs and hopes and symbolism, and she felt that she had come to the right place.

She had lost eight people to a pointless war, and if she’d know what god to address her prayers to, she would have begged for peace every night. And who better to turn to than the actual _incarnation_ of peace?

Very slowly, with almost reverent movements, she placed the eight flowers on the floor in front of the altar, one by one.

One for her father. One for Arya. One for Bran. One for Rickon. One for Robb. One for her mother.

One for Sandor Clegane.

(One for Sansa Stark from Winterfell and her bright innocent dreams).

The bloody red petals looked pretty against the bright marble, she decided, and tried not to think of how they looked just like the blood on the steps in front of the church, or the dark pools on the dirty white tiles of the motel.

With every time she let go of one of the flowers, she felt a little lighter.

When she looked up again, bright light was streaming through the skylight in the ceiling and a smile tugged at her lips. She turned and walked down the stairs without another look at the historical monument, past Petyr who raised a brow at her in an unspoken question, past the guards who looked at her as though she’d gone a little crazy, and into the warm sunlight outside.


End file.
